Mom beams at me and it’s like sunshine. She focuses all her attention on me as if she finds me fascinating. I warn myself not to fall for it. It’s how she is with anyone admiring her art.

The squares of memories beckon me. Go back to when she loved you most, they say. Remember how she painted with you? How she taught you how to mix color? I work to push the memories away, but my brain won’t let me. They play out in front of me while I try to pay attention to Mom. It’s weird to see her in the past and now. The contrast is like one of her paintings—colors dripping across the canvas and fading into something else entirely.

“I knew you’d get it. You have such a wonderful eye.” Mom tugs me into a hug, the soft curve of her arms cushioning my cheek. When I first started preschool, I used to lean against her just like this while she practiced the alphabet with me. Learning to read is forever linked with her cool, silky skin.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t shut out the memory. Young Mom kisses me on my forehead.

I open my eyes, looking past the memory and into the present. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

Present Mom leans back, just enough to peer down at me. “Anything, Lulu.”

I have to be careful. I can’t just ask her to watch Clay. She’ll have an excuse and then get all misty as she stares at her newest painting. Even before Maisie died, Mom was easily distracted. The artist in her longed to create. It’s part of her, so how can I hate it?

“I’ve been missing you,” I say. “Can we spend a day together, just us?”

“Oh!” Her smile hitches higher. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow? And then get our nails done. How does that sound?”

It sounds perfect. My heart squeezes, and I suddenly want this to be real. But it’s not. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.

“That would be awesome,” I say, and I hear the excitement in my voice. I stopped pretending sometime after her hug. “Can we talk about your art, too? I need to ask one of my parents about their job and sort of shadow them, you know?”

“You want to interview me?” She places a graceful hand over her chest as if she can hardly hold in her joy. “That would be wonderful. How long would it take?”

“All day.”